In Silentio Luctum
by Delaney of the Dead
Summary: Silence pervades 221B. John's best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. Or at least, he was. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in the back of his mind, John was vaguely aware that he was walking home. If he'd been in his right mind, he might have heard the whispers of those he was passing. The small girl asking, "Mummy, why's that man crying? Shouldn't we help him?" And her mother's answering shushes. He might have even noticed the stares, or the pointing.

But he didn't.

His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was dead.

As John entered 221B Baker Street and began climbing the 17 steps to his flat, he suddenly became aware of his surroundings, and even more aware of the silence. The only noise was the soft tip-tap of his shoes hitting the steps. It was deafening. Upset by their disruption of the silence, John took off his shoes and socks, placing them carefully in his bedroom. On his way back to the living room (to do what, he did not know), John passed his friend's bedroom. The door was cracked open. John took a step toward the door as if to enter, but stopped himself. Sherlock hated it when John invaded his privacy.

John continued to the living room. He settled himself in his chair, and had been sitting quietly for nearly a full minute when he realized he was staring at Sherlock's chair. Feeling suddenly intrusive, he turned his glance to the room around him.

The living room at 221B was filled with objects immediately identifiable as the possessions of an eccentric, and messes that brought back memories of the night they were made and the person who made them. It seemed empty. No, not empty. Lacking? As if it were missing some vital ingredient. Perhaps it was a cup of tea, or a book. Perhaps a figure sitting in a sofa chair, steepled fingers ghosting against his lips, murmuring to himself quietly.

John shook his thoughts and glanced at the clock. "_Huh_," he thought. "_Molly's probably getting his body at the morgue about now. Maybe she'll finally get to see him naked._ " John giggled to himself softly at the ridiculousness of that thought, but cut off abruptly. His laugh sounded so strange in the silence. He began laughing again, louder this time. The laugh grew in strength until it sounded almost tortured. Then, suddenly, the laughter became sobs.

They were not the quiet, dignified sobs of a widow at her husband's funeral. They were sharp, disturbing barks, sobs that racked the entire body and left one retching. Every once in a while, an unintelligible word would be thrown into the silence. Then, all at once, the noise died out. The silence seemed to stretch over all of London.

It was dark when John woke up from a nightmare he couldn't remember. When he glanced at his surroundings, he realized three things: That Sherlock Holmes was dead, that he was already sobbing again, and that the skull on the mantelpiece was missing.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks after, the crying had mostly stopped, with the exception of the occasional nightmare-induced sobs.

Two months after, John met Mary.

Five months after, Mary moved into 221B.

A year after, John and Mary got married. He did not have a best man.

Two years after, Mary was diagnosed with cancer.

Two years and seven months after, John was alone again.

The silence was louder than ever.

After Mary had died, John found it more painful than ever to work at the clinic. How could he face all of these sick people every day without being brought to tears by the thought of his wife, his Mary? His Mary, who had brought beautiful music into his silent life. The kindest, gentlest, bravest, strongest woman he had ever met was gone.

He sent in his resignation notice.

He found ways to distract himself from the pain. He took up blogging again. He would go out for the occasional drink with Lestrade, who suggested that John help out a bit with some of the tougher cases. So, he did.

Every so often, John would be reminded of the skull that had adorned the mantelpiece and the man who had placed it there. When he got these thoughts, he would stare at the fireplace for a few moments wondering what had happened, then he would drag himself to the kitchen and drink until it didn't hurt so much. When this would happen, he would usually end up calling Harry, who was three years sober, and she would tuck him in, whispering that it would be okay and wiping away the tears John didn't know had fallen.

The morning following one such night, John got a call from Lestrade asking for his help on a case. John agreed to meet him in the café next door in an hour, which gave John enough time to change and clear his face of any tear stains Harry might have missed the night before.

Lestrade walked into the café with a distracted look, and John greeted him with a handshake.

Lestrade's distracted look turned into one of concern. "My God, John, you look awful, like you haven't slept in days. Something up?"

"Nice to see you too, Greg." John said with a sigh, sitting at his usual table.

"Sorry, John. It's just, you know, I worry. We all do. Ever since… you know. And then, with…" He sighed. "You-you just haven't been the same. "

"I appreciate the concern, Greg, but we're not here to discuss my wellbeing. You looked pretty preoccupied when you came in. The case troubling you?"

"No. Well, yes, but that's not what was bothering me when I came in. I thought I saw-" Lestrade broke off. He let out a sigh and ran his hand through his hair, which had, if anything, grown only grayer in the last three years. He looked vaguely in John's direction, the same distracted look adorning his face once again. "Do you… Do you ever wonder if, I don't know, maybe Sherlock's… not gone?"

John gave a sad sort of smile. "The first few weeks after, I saw him everywhere. Every stranger in London with dark hair and dark coat was accosted by me at least once. Of course I've always hoped there was some way he survived, even now, after three years. But… I saw him fall. I felt his pulse. He's gone, Greg, and we've got to accept it. How about that case, then?"

They sat and discussed the case, which John admitted was at least an eight, and then talked about rugby, and Lestrade's family's health, and the weather until John decided it was about time he got back to the flat; He'd promised Mrs. Hudson he'd join her for lunch.

Before he left the café, Lestrade turned back to John and hesitated for a moment before saying, "It'll get better, John. Maybe someday someone'll show up who'll make everything you're going through seem a bit easier." And with a small smile, he turned and left.

John made his way up to the flat. As he wiped his feet on the mat, he became aware that something was wrong. The deep silence that usually pervaded 221B was being disrupted by some sort of noise coming from the kitchen – Mrs. Hudson. John had assumed he'd be going to her flat, but he was perfectly fine with her cooking here. He stepped into the living room and froze in his tracks.

There, in its place as though it had never disappeared, was the skull. John took several tentative steps toward it and was about to touch it to make sure it was real when a deep voice sounded behind him.

"Tea?"

John turned, looked at the man, standing there in a ridiculous floral apron, holding a tea tray, said "Oh. It's you." And then blacked out.


	3. Chapter 3

Some time later, John awoke to a pair of startlingly bright eyes staring at him worriedly.

Some time after that, those same startlingly bright eyes, now slightly duller, opened painfully.

"Did you… knock me out?" Sherlock asked the man now sitting calmly in his chair, sipping tea and staring out of the window. John remained silent. Sherlock stared for a few moments. "Well?"

"Sherlock. We will discuss this, along with the last three years after I've had a chance to calm down." John said mechanically, still staring out of the window.

"Calm down?" Asked Sherlock with a slight _hmph!_ "I assumed you would be overjoyed at my return. I mean, the fainting was to be expected, I suppose, considering-"

"Overjoyed?" John asked in a dangerously low tone. He finally turned to Sherlock, his eyes rimmed red. Sherlock stared at him, silently, quizzically, willing him to explain. "You thought the sight of you would make me happy? After all you've put me through?"

"John, you must understand, it was-"

"No, Sherlock!" John burst out suddenly. "I am not overjoyed. I am angry. No, I am furious!"

"John, I-"

"I went through hell, Sherlock. First it was you, then I got a glimpse of happiness again and the universe saw fit to take that away from me as well. And now, you come back from the grave – a grave I saw, I spoke to, for three bloody years! – and you expect me to be happy? I showed a hell of a lot of restraint earlier in just knocking you out earlier. I wanted to kill you. But just imagine the paperwork involved for Mycroft! He was in on your little plan, your scheme, wasn't he?"

John was now breathing heavily, shaking all over. During his speech he had managed to corner Sherlock against the window.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, resigning himself to telling John the whole truth.

"Yes."

"Who else, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused. "Well… Mycroft and, well, Molly."

"_Molly_? Christ, you told her, and you couldn't be bothered to mention a single detail to me? So, those years of friendship- of living together here, solving crimes or whatever, what were they? Some experiment in human reactions to death?" Tears had started brimming over now.

"John, I saved you life!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, pain etched on his face.

"I'm sure you did, Sherlock. You know, for a while after you jumped, I wondered if I even believed in God anymore. But Mary helped me through that. I do believe in a God, Sherlock Holmes, and that God is not you." John turned toward the door.

"If I hadn't jumped, you would've been killed!"

John paused, then gave a sad smile. "In that case, you really should have saved yourself the trouble." John turned toward the door once more, but was stopped by Sherlock's hand gripping his bicep.

"Not just you, John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. All of you dead if I didn't make all of Moriarty's men think that I was dead first."

For the first time, concern crossed John's lined face. He shook it off and tore his arm out of Sherlock's grip. "I need some fresh air. We can talk more later. Please, just… Just don't follow me."

And for the first time in ages, Sherlock Holmes did was he was told. The front door closed, John Watson outside of it.

Sherlock returned to his chair, where he sat and thought for what felt like hours. Feelings were dangerous, he knew, but he couldn't help it anymore. John Watson had made him human. He couldn't imagine life without him. He imagined that John didn't realize how difficult it had been for Sherlock himself, spending three years without seeing his best friend. His only friend, if he were honest with himself. Other people cared for him, certainly, but none in quite the same way as John did. Or at least as John had before Sherlock left him.

Sherlock was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he nearly missed the sound of the front door opening. There was no way he could miss, however, the stomping footsteps making their way up to his flat. Sherlock gave a small sigh, got out his phone and sent a quick text. He placed the device back in his jacket and finally turned his attention to the man coming in the door. Sherlock let out a groan of annoyance at the sight of the gun in the man's hand. The barrel slowly made its way upward until it was level with Sherlock's head. His eyes gave a small roll.

"You kidnappers really do have the worst sense of timing."

* * *

_AN: Wait, what? A plot? _

_Thanks for reading/reviewing._


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at his reflection in the dark slab in front of him. The gold embossed "SHERLOCK HOLMES" obscured a few of his facial features. He looked to the flowers sitting in his lap and took a deep breath. He held the breath and allowed his eyes to close slowly before releasing it. It'd been stupid, really, buying flowers. He'd bought them on a whim on his way to the cemetery, but as he sat himself down next to the tombstone, he felt a touch of sadness at the thought that some poor unknown soul was actually buried here, someone with a family, someone who would never be properly recognized and mourned. He laid the flowers down against the granite slab and let out a quiet, "Sorry."

He let his thoughts wander, and as they often did, they were drawn to Mary. Mary had wanted her ashes to be scattered in the ocean. John could never understand why, as she'd always hated going to the beach ("It's the sand," she'd say. "It gets everywhere!"), but he obliged anyway without question. He smiled into his lap. Even in death, Mary was the boss.

They'd had a long time to prepare for her death, a lot longer than most of the doctors had guessed. They were well-prepared when the moment came. But John was still shocked to see the person most full of life who he had ever met lying so still. They had been having a quiet whispered conversation before it happened. John had been trying to keep the conversation "safe", talking about the weather and gossip about celebrities he knew nothing about, when she asked him to tell her a story.

"But you've heard all my stories!" He argued with a chuckle.

"I know, but I want to hear one. I love it when you tell stories, especially the ones about you and Sherlock. Your face lights up and you always sound so… happy. Please?" She had been whispering, her voice hoarse from fatigue.

So John smiled and obliged and wove a tale he'd told countless times: his first case – A Study in Pink. At the end, Mary closed her eyes and smiled. She reached for John's hand and when he grasped it in kind, she opened her eyes and turned to him.

"I just want you to be happy, John. Please, will you do this for me?" John nodded and let a tear slip out. Those achingly familiar words. He'd last heard them when his best friend was about to die. He dreaded the moment the love of his life would do the same.

"Promise?" Mary asked solemnly, staring at her husband.

"Promise." John repeated back at her.

That night, Mary closed her eyes to sleep and never opened them again.

John heaved a sigh and brought himself up so he was standing next to the false grave of his best friend. Yes, he was beyond furious with Sherlock, and their friendship could probably never go back to exactly how it was before the jump, but John had to admit that Sherlock Holmes would always be his best friend.

He made his way languidly back to the entrance of the cemetery. He was in no rush to get back and hear Sherlock's apologies and explanations. He already knew he would accept them all and very little would change that.

The phone resting in John's jacket pocket buzzed against his stomach.

He ignored it and continued walking. He knew it was probably Sherlock, giving some random excuse for John to come back to the flat, but John was already on his way. He needed no incentive.

Eventually, he found his way back to the flat and entered with a prepared apology acceptance on his tongue. But it died off in its first syllable.

The silence was back in 221B. Before he had even closed the door behind him, he knew he was alone. Confusion probed at his mind, and soon it switched to worry. Remembering the text he'd received earlier, John checked his phone. One new message.

"_About to be kidnapped. _

_Contact Mycroft._

_Please forgive me._

_-SH"_

* * *

_AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Maybe next chapter we'll finally get to the action._

_((note: I changed the title of this story from "The Mystery of the Missing Skull" for two reasons: a) There is another fic with a very similar name that I saw recently, and b) This story was intended to be a one-shot, ending with the first chapter. As you can tell, that didn't happen.))_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John blinked at his cell phone screen for five seconds, reading and re-reading the message. He abruptly began moving quickly toward his room, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket as he made his way to his desk.

He had not touched his gun since just after Mary's death. He'd just gotten home from the hospital and had gone straight to his desk. He had picked up the gun, placed it against his head for a full second before throwing it back into its drawer. _What had he been thinking? _Since that day, he'd refused to even open the desk drawer he had kept the firearm contained in.

Today was different, though. He was going to use the gun if he had to.

What had Sherlock gotten himself into? Not back alive for more than an hour or two and already kidnapped. And, God, John was angry but he wanted nothing more than to have the bastard back in 221B and hug him and forgive him and ask for forgiveness, and God, what he would do to have him back.

He took the gun and began moving out of the door when he received a text. He paused and checked his phone.

"_Car waiting outside. _

_-MH"_

* * *

Sherlock's eyes opened with a wince, a bright light shining into his eyes. He did a quick self-evaluation. No broken bones, possible sprain in left wrist, minor laceration above left eye. Hands tied behind back of chair, legs tied at the ankle to either leg of the chair he was seated in. Overall, not very pleasant. He let out a sigh. He supposed they were watching him, so there was no harm in alerting them to the fact that he had awoken.

"Any chance I could get some tea? I'm afraid chloroform does leave one rather parched."

He felt someone move from behind him and give his jaw a quick, hard punch.

"No talking 'til the boss gets back," the man grunted.

"Now, now. We don't want Mr. Holmes to be uncomfortable, do we?" A door had opened to Sherlock's right. A tall brutish-looking man had entered the room. By the way the man who had just throttled him straightened up and stepped aside from him, Sherlock could safely assume that this man was "the boss".

"Sherlock Holmes," the apparent leader purred as he circled his prey, "it's an honor to finally meet you. The name's Moran."

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock shouted, finally losing his composure.

"Do calm down, Mr. Holmes." The man stopped in front of Sherlock and leaned in toward his face until only inches separated them. "We're only going to kill you."

* * *

Mycroft had just finished explaining the plan to John. A tracking device had been placed in Sherlock's foot just after the fall so Mycroft would be able to track him down if he ever got in trouble, which, according to Mycroft, was a not-infrequent occurrence.

"Sherlock appears to be in an abandoned Motel, most likely in the basement levels, in North London. A team will accompany you to his location and assist in retrieving Sherlock at any cost."

"No." John countered immediately.

"No?" Mycroft gave John a questioning look, then gave a knowing sigh. "You want to save him yourself."

John turned his head toward the ground. "I… I owe him this. Sherlock needs me right now and I know that it just has to be me. If something goes wrong and I... don't make it, you send in your team or whatever and you get him out alive, but this is up to me."

Mycroft gave a small roll of his eyes and took out his phone. He tapped away at the keys for a few seconds before turning to John. "We will have our team on standby. Should anything happen to you, press this panic button." He handed John a small device that fit around his wrist like a watch. "We will come in to rescue you. Are you certain you want to do this alone? These men will not be unarmed."

"Well," John said, as the car came to a stop, "neither am I."

John pulled out his gun and opened the door.

* * *

"Why kill me? That's the only part I haven't got yet. Your men could have killed me in the flat, you could have had me killed me anytime, why now? Why here?" Sherlock stared at Moran as he cleaned a large knife.

"You might say revenge, but I suppose you weren't really responsible for his death. The poor sod just wanted to go out with a bang. Let's just say it was someone's last request that Sherlock Holmes be…" he gave a small pause in his cleaning to glance at Sherlock with a deadly smile. "Taken care of."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I thought I'd gotten rid of all of Moriarty's henchmen."

"Apparently not!" Moran gave a small chuckle as he brandished the gleaming knife. "Though I wouldn't call myself a henchman by any means. No, Jim and I were closer than that. I was his right hand man. But he's gone. I'm the boss now. And his last wish, his only wish, was for the death of Sherlock Holmes. You know, for a while you had me fooled. That was quite the performance on that rooftop, Mr. Holmes. I didn't think you had it in you. But… I don't suppose you remember Uruguay? The snipers? Ahh, I can see it on your face. You remember. Yes, looks like someone missed a spot!" He gestured grandly at himself. "And here he is. Sebastian Moran, at your service. Well, I say at your service. Truth is, I'm only here to kill you. I just wanted to avoid the footwork. Having these idiots bring you here for me was a great deal more convenient."

Sherlock gave a chuckle. "You sound like my brother."

Moran made his way toward Sherlock's chair. "But Big Brother's not here to help you now."

"You're right," Sherlock admitted, still smiling. "He's not here."

From behind Moran a new voice gave a whisper.

"But I am."

* * *

_A/N: Still not 100% content with this chapter but I had this really biting need to update because I feel really bad about the wait between the last chapter and this one. Thank you guys for the ongoing support. Amazed that my first fic has so far gotten as much attention as it has. I pinky promise you'll never have to wait this long for an update again. _


	6. Chapter 6

Before Moran had a chance to move, he felt the barrel of a gun nudge him gently against the back of the head. Sherlock smirked up at John, but his partner was still staring at the back of Moran's head. He turned to look at Moran who was staring at him wide-eyed, his mouth attempting to form words that weren't coming out.

Moran's hands came up slowly, knife still gripped loosely in his left. "Now listen here, mate-"

"No, you listen to me. I have killed for this man before. And if you make any movements I will not hesitate to do so again. This place is entirely surrounded and they're going to begin sweeping the building any moment now. I'm going to suggest that you drop that knife now."

"Alright, alright. Take it easy. I'm just going to set it on the ground, see?" Moran began crouching slowly, still facing Sherlock.

Just as he was about to set the weapon on the ground, he connected eyes with Sherlock and smirked. John's name began to fall out of Sherlock's mouth, when several things happened at once. In a flurry of movement, the knife connected with Sherlock's left shoulder as he twisted away from Moran, falling to the ground, still tied to the chair. Sherlock's ears were ringing and he realized that a shot had rung out. Suddenly John was there, helping him up off of the ground and pulling the ropes off of his wrists and ankles. Once his arms were free to move, Sherlock made a small move with his left arm before he gave a sharp intake of breath, wincing. He looked down to see the knife still clearly protruding from his shoulder. Clearly hadn't made contact with a bone. No long-term damage.

Once he was done untying, John pressed the button on the band around his wrist, then turned to meet Sherlock's eyes for the first time.

"I'm really sorry, but this is going to hurt." John placed a hand on Sherlock's chest, his other hand gripping the handle of the knife and pulling it out with a sharp, precise movement. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp, and John's hand pushed against the wound, keeping pressure against the blood that was now flowing freely.

"Thank you, John. I'm sorry for having offended you earlier. I hope that our friendship will still be salvageable, as I would really like to regain the… relationship I had with you prior to my, erm, leaving." Sherlock grunted out painfully between sharp intakes of breath. Vision was starting to get a little blurry. Probability of passing out was steadily rising.

"We'll talk later, Sherlock, but right now we've got to get you to a doctor."

Sherlock smiled up at John, and as John's eyebrows knitted together worryingly at the sight, Sherlock let out a whisper:

"I've already got my doctor."

Sherlock's eyes were closed now, so intense was the pain. He listened to the quiet chuckle of his best friend.

The last thing Sherlock Holmes heard before he allowed himself to pass out was the banging open of a metal door and a familiar voice letting out a sharp tsk and groaning something about how he would explain this mess to mummy.

He had a final, fleeting thought that, despite the gaping wound in his shoulder, he felt better than he had in years.

* * *

AN: I know. _I know_. I'm _so_ sorry!

I really don't have any excuse - I just couldn't find a satisfying way to finish it off. I really hated the idea of leaving it unfinished, though, so I settled for this, which isn't quite up to par with what I had hoped for, but hopefully wasn't too bad for you guys.

I know probably none of you have stayed with it but I thank you anyways for supporting me through my (year-long) first fic. I've written other fics in the last year, and you can find those that I have finished on ao3 (I've learned from this godforsaken fic not to publish until I have it completed). My handle is Congragulation, which is also my Tumblr URL if any of you are interested in following :) I don't know that I'm going to be posting much more on ffn, so you can keep up with me there.

Thanks for everything, guys! I love you! 3


End file.
